


In the Palms of Our Hands

by BastardBin



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Kittens, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, doc is a soft hearted less dumbie that knows how to take care of kittens, it's so cute i made myself cry, literally half the fic is just bottle feeding kittens thats it, mumbo is a soft hearted dumbie that doesnt know how to take care of kittens, thats it thats the whole plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastardBin/pseuds/BastardBin
Summary: They're so small. Small, helpless, crying out for a parent that's nowhere to be seen, tucked away in a world far too dangerous. He couldn't just leave them there.Mumbo doesn't know the first thing about kittens, but that won't stop him from trying to find someone who does, even if it turns out to be one of the last people he would have expected.
Relationships: Mumbo Jumbo/Docm77
Comments: 33
Kudos: 182





	In the Palms of Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in two days and i have an actual toothache since starting it so i'm going to say this is literal tooth rotting fluff and no one can stop me. please enjoy 10k words of solid fluffy soft cuteness to cure the sad on the worst of days. i dreamt about kittens last night. someone please send help
> 
> (also i know Doc's portal isnt outside shhh its for the ambiance)

Looking around at the high outcroppings of red stone, of the sweltering red haze obscuring distant land masses from view, of the falling columns of pure liquid lava pouring from the ceiling high above, Mumbo sighs. The air is harsh and hot in his lungs, seemingly pulling the moisture right out of his mouth until he’s left with a sandpapery feeling and a dry throat that he knows won’t be leaving anytime soon. But even that is just a mild, momentary discomfort compared to the absolute boiling heat seeming to cling within his, well, less than intelligent choice of clothing for venturing into the Nether.

Granted, his suit  _ looks _ very smart, if he does say so himself, but it’s not exactly prime gear for spelunking in the depths of the harsh landscape with fire underfoot. Really, he should have at least worn that ridiculous outfit he fashioned together for his time in the jungle, but at the same time, he was in that for far longer than he should have been anyway.

Also, lacking shoes may be somewhat of a detriment for obvious reasons. Maybe he’s better off in the suit after all.

All the same, he hurries along as best he can despite the overheated discomfort crawling beneath his skin, more than a little wanting for a portal and the cooler air on the other side. He complained before about the mugginess of the jungle, of the thick and cloying heat blanketed over all of their bases there, but he has to admit the Nether is far worse. Besides, at least the jungle he can find amusing after Grian took his comment about the stifling air to fill his lawn with mugs, all for the sake of an awful pun. Meanwhile, being in here just feels like being in an oven, and he’s not sure he’d appreciate puns about being cooked quite as much.

The Nether is eerily silent around him, of which he isn’t sure whether to take as a good sign or a bad one. On the one hand, not hearing any ghasts or anything else lurking behind the twists and turns of the Hermits’ tunnel system is reassuring in the way that maybe there’s nothing around him to be startled and attacked by, but on the other hand, it’s like seeing a spider and then  _ not _ seeing a spider. But for the moment, the silence seems innocent, the tunnels empty of threats and other Hermits alike, and he’s free to continue on his way without incident.

That’s until the silence is broken by what sounds like a ghast, at first; Mumbo pauses, more out of contemplative confusion than fear, by the way it just sounds… a bit  _ off. _ He can’t quite place it from the one, tiny noise, but it just didn’t sound right. Too nearby, yet sounding so distant from just how  _ small _ it was. The seconds tick by as he waits, listening, hesitant to move further for reasons he’s not entirely sure of beyond curiosity, but the sound doesn’t repeat itself.

Hesitantly, he continues, forcing himself to take slow steps forward. He doesn’t  _ want _ to, and he can’t place why; unable to resist the urge to keep glancing back over his shoulder, to find something he feels like he needs to find. There’s a feeling almost like he’s left behind something important, but he has all of his gear on him, and finally he just shakes the feeling off and forges ahead.

That’s when he hears it again, the noise. It’s tinier than before, and this time, he’s sure it  _ can’t _ be a ghast. It’s too small, too  _ pitiful, _ and the feeling that he needs to find it doubles. Turning to the walls around him, pickaxe in hand, the redstoner carefully begins tearing into the netherrack around him, searching for the source of whatever made that noise. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking for, exactly, but he can’t ignore the cries that sounded just so distinctly  _ weak _ even if he isn’t the most well versed in Nether creatures.

He supposes, once he finds it, that said detail doesn’t matter all too much anyway. Buried in a tiny pocket in the netherrack, hidden away from the harsh landscape around with nothing but a tiny tunnel to reach it before he came digging along, Mumbo finds himself staring at a litter of  _ kittens _ of all things. Nestled together into a tiny wriggling ball of multicolored fur, he’s not even sure how many there are, but they’re  _ far _ too tiny to be in a place like the Nether. Now that he’s unearthed them, due to more light or different scents or even his presence, he has no idea what they’re even able to detect really, they’re making more noises.

Or, one of them is. It’s the same weak, pitiful sounds he heard on the path, but only the biggest one is speaking at all. The others are still, curled up and unmoving underneath the loud one, its head raised on a wobbly body as it cries. Mumbo’s heart does a tiny little thing at the sight of them, of the sad little sounds of the lone baby animal, and he reaches out to gently pet it on top of its head. It’s so tiny, he thinks it could fit in the palm of his hand, and he almost feels like he could cry over the way it fusses louder and bonks against his hand when he pets it. On tiny, sprawled legs, it clambers its way over its siblings to try and come towards him, blindly searching behind eyes that haven’t yet opened, though it doesn’t make it far before giving up.

In the process, it manages to disturb some of the others, two more fuzzy round heads sticking up out of the pile of downy fur to yell at the first. 

They’re so  _ quiet _ , though, and the others didn’t complain about being toddled over at all. He feels worry bubbling up in him, frowning down at this little bundle of babies tucked away into the wall of the Nether. Should he take them? But he doesn’t know the first thing about kittens, much less ones as tiny and fragile as these. But then, they’re in the Nether, somewhere anything could come along and dig to them upon hearing their tiny cries, and how long has it been since they’ve eaten anyway, he wonders?

They must’ve had a parent cat at some point, or else they wouldn’t be here at all. Looking at them now, though, at the way the one is clinging to his hand and mouthing at his thumb, he thinks maybe that isn’t the case anymore.

He feels torn, uncertain of what would be best for them. Would it be best to leave them here, to hope there’s a parent to return to them after all? But he doesn’t know for sure if there’s still one out there, or if their living in the Nether has come to an end, leaving behind this little pile of defenseless creatures on their own. Just the thought of casing them back in and going on his merry way makes something in Mumbo’s chest twist, and he decides he definitely doesn’t want to do that, even if he has to find someone else to beg for help with them.

Nodding to himself, Mumbo gently picks up the first kitten, the loud one. It fusses at the movement, making a cranky little noise upon the ground disappearing from beneath it, solid white limbs flailing in the air in some search for something solid. Chuckling, he sets it as gently and securely as he can into the crook of his other arm before reaching for another. The next is one of the ones that lifted its head at the first, tiny pale markings and stripes covering its dark body, and it too wiggles and complains when he picks it up.

One by one, he slots them carefully into his grip, making sure not to let any of them wiggle free. He counts five in total, in a range of colors, though the three in the middle are all dark with the last coming in a pale orange. The first one is the most active, the second two weak but wiggling, and the last two barely respond and only make tiny peeping noises as he moves them. He doesn’t know anything about kittens, but… he doesn’t really like that. Compared to the activity of the first, even as quiet and pitiful as it sounds, the stillness of the others doesn’t sit right with him at all.

Not that he knows what to do about it, actually.

For a moment he just stands, staring down at the babies in his arms, wondering what to do or how to help them. He mulls over other Hermits in his head, trying to decide where to take them to,  _ who _ to take them to, who would know best about what to do with them. Grian is the first that comes to mind, knowing he likes cats, but… he doesn’t tend to keep many around, does he?  _ Scar, _ on the other hand… Decided, Mumbo carefully maneuvers himself out of the little tunnel he dug, careful not to drop any of the kittens in his hold.

He’s thankful again for the Nether hub, for the tunnels built safely out of sight of hostile mobs, as he treks along with arms full of the tiniest kittens he’s ever seen. The white one’s fussing echoes in the hall around them, and he shushes at it quietly, noting the way it quiets down at the sound of his voice. As soon as he’s quiet again, it goes back to yelling, its tiny pink face directed up at his general direction.

It feels like he’s being yelled at and demanded things of, probably for a stationary bed and food, and he’s never felt more chuffed at being yelled at by a tiny animal before. Well, he’s never been yelled at by a tiny animal at all as far as he can remember, but it’s still far cuter than it has any right to be. It’s downright adorable.

Reaching the jungle portal is a relieving feeling, though. Mumbo is already adoring just how cute his little bundle of newfound wiggly beans is, but he’s still worried about the less wiggly ones. They’re so quiet, so still, he can’t help but free his other hand again to pet the tops of their  _ tiny _ heads with a single fingertip. They do wiggle, some, puffing strange little fussy noises at him, and putting his heart at ease for the time being.

The jungle is, just as expected, just as muggy as he remembered it. Even coming from the Nether, it only manages to add onto the uncomfortable overheated feeling he already has that he’s suddenly reminded of, but he’s more concerned with the kittens at this point. The discomfort only crosses his mind momentarily before it’s forgotten again, tossed to the back of his mind with more pressing matters at hand.

Looking around for Scar’s base, he’s met with a bonk against his legs and a curious little  _ mrrp? _ sound, one he can recognize as Jellie before he’s even looked down. She’s sitting here at the portal, staring up at him with big green eyes, and he kneels down to pet her and allow her to see the little fluffy things in his grip. She sniffs at his hand, headbutting it, and leans in enough to lick at one of the less active kittens.

Its head jolts up, yelling at her like the white one did at Mumbo earlier, that demanding little sound like it wants something from her. Jellie doesn’t startle, but she does turn away and run some distance toward the jungle, only stopping to look back at Mumbo and meow insistently at him.

“What is this, Mumbo gets yelled at by every cat in Hermitcraft day?” He mumbles to himself, rising up to his feet to follow her without dusting off his knees. Jellie dashes off into the jungle the moment he moves, though she stays within his sight as she leads him along toward Scar’s base. At least he has a guide to help him not get lost or tangled in vines along the way, he supposes, remembering just how easy it is to get turned around when one isn’t flying above the treetops.

The quaint little village rises up out of the green around them, Jellie prancing along over cobbled stepping stones with a confidence Mumbo wishes he could match on the best of days. It’s like she knows exactly where she’s going, as if she knows exactly where Scar is no matter where he goes, proven still by the way she makes a beeline directly for one building in particular. It pushes open just with the little cat shouldering against it, something that can’t be a very good tactic on keeping out hostile mobs, but Scar is digging through a chest just within and Mumbo forgets that thought at the sight of him.

“Oh, hello Jellie,” Scar croons at her when she bonks into his legs much the same way she did to mumbo, the terraformer not having noticed his unexpected guest yet. When he does look up and spot Mumbo, he startles, jolting away from the chest and gasping. “Oh, you scared me! Don’t just loom in doorways like that!”

“Sorry,” Mumbo starts, already taking a breath to ask for help anyway. The white kitten beats him to it, though, sticking its head up and over his arm and yelling that same complaining cry toward Scar’s general direction. The terraformer’s eyes go wide, vexation forgotten.

_ “Mumbo what is that.” _ He asks, eyes sparkling as he leans in. There’s awe and excitement in his voice just at the sight of the little creature, along with a mild air of hesitation as if he thinks the kitten must not be real, or that he can’t believe Mumbo would be the one with it.

“Well, I could be wrong, but I think it’s a cat.” Mumbo shrugs back helplessly, or at least as best he can without jostling the lot of them. “Actually, er, it’s several of them..?”

Scar glances up at him, questioning, before stepping close enough to see the other four all tucked away against his chest. “Oh my  _ gosh _ Mumbo how,  _ where-- _ ” He starts to ask, reaching out to touch them while the redstoner fidgets.

“I found them in the Nether, I… I couldn’t leave them there, right? It didn’t feel right to leave them there, what if something found them, or…” He starts rambling, unable to hide his worry and divided feeling on what the best thing to do with them was. But Scar is already shaking his head, some of the bright excitement on his face going flat at the minimal response he gets from petting them.

“No, no, you did the right thing. The Nether isn’t a safe place for a cat, much less helpless, practically newborn ones.”

“N-newborn?” Mumbo blanches, looking down at them. He didn’t think they were  _ that _ young, surely?

“Well, not exactly, but close.” Scar yoinks the white one out of his grip, holding it gently and expertly as he turns it this way and that. Mumbo thinks he’s probably looking at its face, at the tiny fluffs for ears and the closed eyes, the bright pink nose. “I’d say they’re maybe a week old at most. It’s been too long since they’ve been taken care of if they’re this weak, though, so I think you made the right choice in taking them.”

Mumbo can’t help but sigh, relieved that he didn’t do a spoon moment at least. “Can you-- do you know what to do with them? I have… not the slightest idea of, well,  _ anything _ to do with cats.”

But it’s Scar’s turn to hesitate, his face pulling in a way that doesn’t feel very reassuring. “Er… not really. I’m not great with the brand new ones. But! I  _ do _ know who  _ can _ take care of them.” He adds the last bit as the redstoner’s expression falls, beaming a confident smile up at him.

“You do?”

“Yeah! Trust me, he’s the best of the best when it comes to orphan kittens. Do you  _ know _ how many times we’ve run into some, here and there, over the years? He can handle it just fine, you’ll see.”

The emphasis on this having happened before kind of removes Grian from the running, and the mention of  _ he _ removes Mumbo’s next guess, Stress. Tilting his head, Mumbo asks the obvious question, curiosity jabbing at him like a knife. “Who?”

“Doc!” Scar beams proudly, hands on his hips. “There’s no one better.”

“...  _ No, _ you must be joking.” Mumbo gapes back at him in complete and utter disbelief. Doc, who’s been running around all season playing as a mob boss out to get Bdubs’ head in between the most extreme pastimes he can think of, including but most definitely not limited to wrestling and literal wild west shootouts? Scar must be mistaken, or he’s been in the jungle for too long.

“I’m serious! Trust me, there’s nobody around here more qualified or more willing to hand raise kittens than that guy.” Scar assures him, though Mumbo can’t help the sideways look he’s still pinning the other with. “You remember Area 77? You didn’t hear it from me, although I guess nobody else would’ve seen it at all, so you could  _ only _ hear it from me-- you didn’t hear it at all! But… Back then, we ended up with some from the village, and I’ll tell ya, Doc didn’t sleep a wink that week. I’m not even sure he left his office, he was so focused on making sure they were taken care of. Everyone else thought he was going crazy researching aliens, nope; he was bottle feeding kittens.”

To say Mumbo wouldn’t have expected Doc to be a cat person, much less an orphan kittens parent person, would be a hell of an understatement. But he supposes, maybe, it makes sense too, now that Scar mentions it. It seems like just the kind of off the wall, unexpected thing that Doc would revel in, and secretly be all over, while projecting his tough scary guy persona he likes so much elsewhere. Chasing Bdubs with intent for murder by day, holding and murmuring at tiny baby kittens by night, well…

Yeah, he can see it.

“Okay, I’ll go find him.”

* * *

Compared to the Nether and the jungle both, stepping out onto the mountain Doc’s half-mansion is on is a noticeably stark difference. The air is thin and sharp, and  _ cold, _ mountain wind buffeting right against him and trying its hardest to chill under his dense suit. It can’t, the fabric too thick and keeping him free of its chill, but the kittens in the basket Scar gave him to transport them immediately start fussing. Pitiful tiny peeps, little mews, and the white one crying its loudest yet to tell him just how unhappy it is with the cold.

They’re so small, even though it’s only a short walk until they’ll be inside anyway, Mumbo doesn’t want to have them open to the chill of the mountain air. He’s pretty sure babies are supposed to be uncomfortably warm, at least to a grown person, and their fussing backs up that thought. With nothing else to do for it, he sets the kittens down, pulling the suit jacket from his shoulders and wrapping it over top of the basket.

Almost right away, their fussing quiets down to just little small noises, the basket peeping here and there until it goes quiet within. Mumbo is left with the wind slapping right through his much thinner dress shirt, but really, that’s preferable to how hot he was earlier anyway.

The trip down to the mansion’s porch is a quick one, the jacket-wrapped basket held closely to his chest with both of his arms around it. It’s like some precious cargo, something valuable and irreplaceable, and really, that’s already how he’s come to feel. He doesn’t even remember what he was doing earlier, where he was on his way to or what he had in store for the day, when he found the kittens and derailed all of it. But none of that matters all that much now, his heart now invested in these little fuzzy beans and their well being, having listened to and melted over their adorable meeps and mews for far too many miles now to not care for them.

Wood creaking under his feet, betraying his presence, Mumbo glances all around for any sign of Doc. He isn’t on the porch, but there’s signs of him using it; a well loved chair in the corner, sided by a small table with coffee ring stains and a book on the railing, shows him just how Doc likes to spend his mornings. A pair of glasses set upon the book catch his attention, with the stray thought that Mumbo didn’t even know Doc  _ needed _ those.

Picturing the scene in his head, he thinks they suit him, somehow. It's a strangely nice picture.

Shaking it off, Mumbo continues on, searching for the aforementioned homeowner. He knocks gently on the front door, and then louder, though he still gets no response. The noise makes the kittens cry at him, their voices slowly becoming more shrill with the passage of time, and he knows they need to be fed soon. Hesitantly, he pushes against the door, and it creaks open, revealing the… completely open to the air interior.

There’s no point in locking your door if your entire house is missing an entire wall anyway, as it turns out.

It’s decorated in all manner of things one would expect from Doc, on the surface level. Dark walls and dark rugs, enchanted swords hung on said walls, a scattering of useful items and tools all across surfaces most frequently used, along with an… interesting amount of anvils. But the occupant himself is nowhere to be seen, and with desperation increasing equal to the sad cries of his kittens, Mumbo looks out, hoping to find Doc somewhere in the yard.

There’s no Doc, but he  _ does _ spot a wild Bdubs, flitting back and forth around his porch and searching through shulkers. Making sure the basket is still being supported completely by one arm, he raises the other, cupping his mouth against the wind and shouting Bdubs’ name across the fence to get his attention. It earns him a glance up from a frazzled and busy-looking builder, and a shouted  _ what?! _ right back.

“Do you know where Doc is?” Mumbo calls, hoping beyond hope that he does. Bdubs hesitates for a moment before nodding.

“What do ya want him for?”

Pointing simply at the basket and not wanting to explain the entire  _ everything _ that has led up to this point by shouting over the wind, Mumbo gets to watch as bewildered confusion crosses the other Hermit’s face. He mouths a question, mostly to himself, before shaking his head and shrugging it off.

“I’ll get him, hang on.”

Lurching from his porch, elytra flaring open and catching the midday sun in cascades of color, Bdubs speeds away toward the ocean in only a split moment. He follows the curve of the mountain down and out of sight, down toward the coast, leaving Mumbo with nothing to do but wait. It’s after a moment that he realizes he should probably wait  _ outside, _ on the porch, instead of standing awkwardly around Doc’s anvil-filled half living room like some kind of weirdo.

And wait he does. With a basket of kittens growing ever quieter, holding it tighter in his arms to steady his worry, Mumbo shifts from foot to foot as the seconds tick by. He can hear the way the porch creaks with each shift, squeaking at him with a steady rhythm that betrays just how anxious he’s beginning to get. It’s like tapping a pen on a desk, over and over and over, with nowhere else to expend his energy and the need to do  _ something _ . After a few minutes, he dares to reach a hand under the jacket, feeling around for the tiny mass of multicolored fur and breathing a sigh of relief when a tiny head or two wobble and bonk into his hand, mewing at him.

“Okay, okay, what’s this about? Bdubs interrupted what I was doing and yelled something about mystery criminal baskets.” Doc’s dry and gravelly voice sounds from behind him, and Mumbo jumps, turning with the same feeling of startled surprise he put Scar through earlier. Doc is watching him levelly, though he raises an eyebrow when he looks down and sees said basket. “Oh, he wasn’t kidding, that  _ does _ look suspicious.”

“PleasehelpIdon’tknowwhatI’mdoing.” Mumbo tells him in a rush, torn between holding the basket out to him and holding it tight to himself, and he settles for continuing to clutch it while stepping closer instead. Something on his face must be some tell of what’s going on, the hybrid’s eyes going wide as he looks between Mumbo and the basket. He looks ready to ask, to question for details, the redstoner’s air of urgency rubbing off on him and replacing the joking tone he’d had.

Instead, Mumbo is saved from needing to explain anything by, he’s assuming, the white kitten crying for care again. A beat passes in silence, until it cries again, quieter this time. Almost right away, Doc grabs his shoulder, turning Mumbo toward the door and pushing him into the half mansion.

“Come on, now. There’s no time to waste.” He urges, taking over in a split second. Doc half leads, half drags him up the stairs to the second floor, and Mumbo understands why after the several moments it takes to take in and register the absurdly pink bedroom he finds himself in. Aside from the frilly pink curtains, and pink carpet, and pink bedspread, and… literally everything, this room is also the only one of the house that appears bundled away from the elements. The open wall is blocked off, the room solid, leaving the harsh wind of the mountain outside and allowing them the blessedly still air within the room.

In the time it took Mumbo to examine his surroundings, Doc has already moved to the furnace in the corner. There’s the distinct flash of flint sparking a few times before it lights, the crackle of fire filling the room along with the tiny peeping of the kittens. Doc looks back to him while he works, blindly chucking wood on top of the flames to build them up.

“How long has it been since you found them?” He asks, his voice direct and no-nonsense. Mumbo has to think, before giving a vague shrug.

“I found them in the Nether on the way home, so I brought them to Scar, and then he sent me here..”

“So, maybe an hour or two. Okay.” Standing from where he was crouched before the furnace, Doc steps closer and pulls the jacket gently away from the top of the basket to peer within. He looks around at the kittens for a moment before reaching in, seeming to feel around and no doubt finding how still some of them are. “They’re a bit cooler than they should be.”

It makes Mumbo wince, hearing they hadn’t stayed warm enough here on the mountain despite his efforts. Doc’s words are a blunt statement, said more to himself than to Mumbo it seems, but he retracts his hand all the same and places it back on the redstoner’s shoulder.

“Over here.” He directs, guiding Mumbo to sit on the ridiculously pink bed. It’s notably very comfortable, much more comfortable than his own, and he has a moment of envy over it, but it’s knocked right out of his head as Doc speaks again. “Open your shirt.”

_ “What?” _ Mumbo blinks up at him, utterly confused and  _ certain _ he’d heard him wrong. Already, he can feel heat rising to his face from the directness of the command, and he has to swallow the bundle of nerves that rise to his throat when he sees the unbudging expression on Doc’s face. “Why in the world--”

“They’re cold. They’re too small to generate their own heat, even in their enclosed space.” Doc explains finally, his voice going softer as he seems to realize Mumbo really does have no idea what he’s talking about. “If you put them in your shirt, they can warm up from your body heat until I can build them a bed with hot rocks. Unless, of course,  _ you _ want to be the one handling rocks out of the fire while I hold the kittens.”

The last sentence is emphasized by Doc holding up and flexing his metal hand, and Mumbo has to agree he’s right about that one. Granted, he also makes the mistake of  _ imagining _ Doc holding all of the kittens tucked against his chest within his torn lab coat, and he feels like the warmth in his face is probably here to stay. It’s not helped at all by the fact he now needs to unbutton his shirt, here, in Doc’s bedroom, in front of Doc--

_ Oh _ , what has he gotten himself into?

Doc snorts, and Mumbo hopes to some almighty being that he didn’t say that out loud. All the same, Doc steps closer, gently taking the basket from him and setting it carefully down onto the bed beside him. “If you’re that self conscious, I can go get the rocks while you sort yourself out into being a temporary mother hen.” Doc jokes, shooting a warm sideways glance up at him.

“Uh-- n-no, I’m fine.” He murmurs back, looking away while unbuttoning his collar. He’s not even sure if Doc watches or not, looking away while feeling his heart hammering within his chest with a vengeance, but before he knows it he’s several buttons down and Doc is back in front of him.

“There ya go.” Doc murmurs in a low voice that Mumbo isn’t sure whether it’s directed at him or the little black kitten in Doc’s organic hand, though he can most definitely blame the shiver on the metal hand that braces on his shoulder, even if he knows that isn’t what caused it. Ever so gently, Doc sets the kitten to his bare chest, holding his hand there over it while glancing up to meet the redstoner’s eyes. Mumbo gulps. “Hold him against you so he doesn’t fall.”

Mutely, with a dry throat from his heart punching the inside of it, Mumbo nods and does as told. He holds his hand over Doc’s for just a moment, until the other Hermit pulls free and reaches for another kitten. That becomes their rhythm, until Mumbo is holding all five kittens to his chest, trying to stave off the ticklish feeling of their fur on his skin. Doc steps away again once he’s holding them all, but he comes back with a small, pink blanket, holding it out to Mumbo and letting him wrap it gently around himself and the kittens to keep the warmth in with them.

“I didn’t expect to become a mother cat today,” He jokes, trying to hold his voice steady after the situation he’s found himself in.

“That’s how it is. They always come out of nowhere, and then you’re a tired parent for the next six weeks and up.” Doc chuckles back, with an almost reserved kind of sound. Then he’s leaving the room, disappearing down the stairs. “I’ll be back with rocks. I doubt you want to be their bed for that entire time period.”

Mumbo is left alone in the quiet of Doc’s bedroom, with nothing but the crackling of the fire, the faint squeaks of kittens, and the still overwhelmed hammering of his heart to fill the silence. He’s flustered, playing the past few moments over and over in his head, unable to shake the mental image of the warm and mildly amused look on Doc’s face from his head. What’s come over him, all the sudden? He was fine before, with his goal of taking care of his newfound baby jelly beans, and now he’s as red as his favorite ore.

But blessedly, the kittens seem happy, wiggling and worming their way around in the warm blanket against him. Carefully, he shuffles backward, finding the equally pink headboard to lean back against. By the time he’s at least somewhat comfortable, Doc is climbing back up the stairs, several fist sized rocks in his hands. “Well, don’t you look comfortable.” He smirks, tossing half of his collection into the furnace to warm up. The rest of the rocks are poured aside onto the floor, and a jar of milk Mumbo hadn’t even seen in his hand set on top of the furnace to warm up.

“I’m admittedly a bit jealous of your princess bedroom.” Mumbo tosses back, thankful for the way his odd flustered spell seems to have staved off now with Doc at a distance. His jab makes the other laugh, a warm sound that fills the room. “It’s... a bit toasty with kittens and blankets though.”

Really, he’s already being reminded of where he started before he even found the kittens, shifting uncomfortably within the warmth of the soft pink blanket. Still not as bad as the sweltering heat of the Nether, but close. He’s starting to wonder if he’ll ever get to just be a comfortable temperature at this rate.

“Good.” Doc nods, looking around for a moment as if he’s lost something, before grabbing a barrel from nearby and tossing its contents into a corner to empty it. He doesn’t seem to care about the mess, at least for the moment. “They need to be warm before they can be fed.”

He talks with no hesitation, his gaze steady and set firm on the task at hand, just like any other project Mumbo has ever seen him do. It’s that look of confidence, of automated familiarity, that really drives home what Scar was telling him. “You really  _ have _ done this before, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” Doc looks up, then, meeting his eyes. “Where do you think Jellie came from?”

It’s all Mumbo can do to blink at him, mouth agape. “No way.”

“Mhm.” He hums in quiet confirmation, using his metal hand to turn the rocks around in the furnace. “It was a long,  _ long _ time ago. He found her and didn’t know any better what to do than you did, and honestly, I wasn’t sure either.”

Mumbo isn’t sure what to say to that, how to react. To think of Scar without his trademark companion is an odd enough thought on its own, but imagining Jellie the same as one of these tiny little mewling beans with pink muzzles and closed eyes is a whole other thing, one that suddenly makes him understand far more just how Scar ended up so very attached to her. Already, Mumbo feels like he doesn’t want to let these kittens out of his sight, and he’s only had them for a few hours. He can only imagine what it would be like with just one, especially having to trial and error their way through caring for it.

In the stretching, comfortable silence, he watches as Doc reaches up to lift and swirl the jar of milk set atop the furnace earlier. He checks it carefully, mixing it thoroughly and pouring out the smallest amount across his organic wrist before setting it back on the stone to warm further. Then he uses the other hand to pull the rocks from the direct fire below, tapping at them to test their heat as well. Finding them warm to his liking, Doc puts them in the bottom of the emptied barrel and tosses enough blankets over top to keep the hot surface safely away. Mumbo can’t see how he’s arranging it, but he assumes the hybrid is making some kind of warm little blanket nest for them. He works in silence until he’s finished, and Mumbo doesn’t interrupt, content to just watch the other mull about.

Finally, Doc stands upright and steps close again, expression relaxed and hands outstretched to take a kitten from him. They wiggle and complain as he takes them, one by one, depositing them into their new little safe and cozy bed of their own. Mumbo would almost be sad to not be holding them anymore, if he wasn’t so overheated and absolutely done with the blanket he’d been wrapped in with them. Tossing the blanket decidedly away from him is more cathartic than it should be, the cooler air of the room an absolute treat.

“Does this mean I can put my shirt back on now?” Mumbo asks him, wincing at the way his intended joking tone comes off with a noticeable lilt as it mixes with the flustered feeling of before. Doc glances back at him, chuckling, and Mumbo is sure he must be imagining the way his eyes darted down and immediately back up again.

“Yes, you’re done, they’re good on their own now.” Doc nods, looking back down into the barrel with a soft look for a moment. Then he busies himself again, reaching back over to the other half of the rocks he gathered, tossing them directly into the fire like the first set, no doubt warming them to swap out with the first set later. With them placed, he goes back to the jar again, testing it on his wrist and setting it aside from the heat, fishing two tiny bottles out of a pocket in his torn coat. Looking back, he gives the redstoner watching him a onceover, bottles held suspended in the air in pause. “...Unless you’d prefer to stay like that.”

Realizing he hasn’t moved at all, only watching Doc work, Mumbo scrambles to do up his buttons properly. He looks away, unable to come up with any kind of excuse to cover him staring, though he can still hear Doc softly chuckling at him plain as day. It only makes him more flustered, fumbling with the buttons as he goes, something in his chest absolutely fluttering at the sound. What is his deal today? He’s never been this shy and easily embarrassed around the other Hermit before, but now he can barely calm himself enough to put his clothing back in order.

“... Do you need help?” Doc asks, his tone somewhere between dryly teasing and edging on genuine, and just the possibility of Doc  _ actually _ helping him fix his buttons makes something in his mind overheat and fry entirely. If he were a circuit, he’d be sparking and on fire by now, and he absolutely feels like it.

“No, no! I’m fine, I’m--” His voice catches, deciding to give up on him and leave for a moment. “How are the kittens?”

The change in topic comes out sudden and scratchy, but Doc doesn’t mention it. When Mumbo glances back at him, he’s gone back to work; pouring the warmed liquid into the bottles and capping them off with the tiniest little rubber nibs he’s ever seen in his life. Then he turns, holding one out to Mumbo. “Hold this one in your fist so it doesn’t cool off as fast, and watch me.”

Well, evidently, he doesn’t really need to tell him to do that last part. But Mumbo nods anyway, leaving his jankily buttoned shirt to deal with later and holding the tiny bottle just as Doc told him to, watching as the hybrid reaches down into the barrel. He’s met with tiny, barely audible angry noises as he pulls out one of the least active, darker kittens.

“Not the loud one?” Mumbo asks, watching Doc sink down into a chair by the bedside covered in pillows just as pink as everything else. He lays a small towel across his lap, setting the kitten on it.

“No, that one’s the strongest. We’ll take care of it last.” Doc explains. Glancing up, assumedly to make sure Mumbo is watching, he tilts the bottle in his hand over and holds the kitten still in a supportive grip with the other. “Make sure to tilt it high, you don’t want them to swallow air. And don’t squeeze it the whole time, you don’t want to drown them.”

Mumbo nods, fascinated and enthralled as he watches Doc gently lift up the kitten’s chin with his thumb, nudging at its mouth with the bottle. It just murmurs quiet complaints at him, trying to spit it out, until he gives the plastic just a tiny little squeeze. Then the kitten perks up, lurching toward the taste and nuzzling the bottle like it’s the only thing in the world. There’s tiny smacking noises as it drinks, tiny milk bubbles appearing in the fur on its chin, all while Doc holds its body gently under an unmoving hand to not disturb it.

When Mumbo glances up, it feels like the bed sways under him. Doc is looking down at the kitten with such a soft expression, something adoring and patient, still with the same unwavering focus he pours into everything he works on. He looks relaxed, the barest of soft smiles pulling at his lips, and even as Mumbo watches, he can see the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly, skin crinkling at the edges with little lines that betray soft and happy expressions like this happening more often than he knows. Doc takes a slow breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly enough to not disturb his hands.

Then he realizes the kitten has slowed, lazily mouthing at the bottle before pulling away completely. It’s still wobbly and too small to hold up its own head, but it looks happy and more active than before, swaying its head around to look at surroundings it can’t see. Doc pets it, scratching gently along its back and making it meow at him in surprise that he’s still there. His hands are delicate as he scoops them up underneath it, holding the tiny creature in cupped hands before placing it against his chest and papping its back rhythmically.

Looking up, then, his eyes meet Mumbo’s.

“Your turn.”

He says the words softly, just as gentle as everything else in his demeanor right now. Even looking up at Mumbo, his face stays soft, impossibly relaxed and caring, and the redstoner can feel the way his heart flutters at the sight of it. There’s a surprisingly loud noise from the kitten, something that registers in his mind after a delay as a tiny burp, and the way Doc starts laughing gently over it is the nail in his proverbial coffin.

Or, it’s the first one, really. Doc pulls the kitten away and holds it up to his face, nuzzling at it gently and pressing tiny kisses to its little head. “Loud little thing, aren’t you? That’s good, a loud baby is a strong baby.” He murmurs, seeming to forget Mumbo is there entirely for just that moment.

Mumbo forgets he’s there too, really, beyond drawn in and losing his mind over the scene he’s witnessing unfold right before his eyes.

He has no words as he watches Doc set his bottle and towel aside, standing with the kitten still held gently to his face, still murmuring encouraging words to it. Even as he leans toward the barrel, he seems to hesitate putting it down, giving it another tiny kiss before setting it gently down into the blankets with its siblings. His hands don’t come up empty, either, bringing the orange kitten up in the process and turning to Mumbo with it. “Your turn.” He repeats, holding it carefully toward him.

“I,” Mumbo blinks, suddenly unsure of himself. He watched Doc take care of the first one, but really, he’s not sure how much attention he actually paid to the specifics. “Uh. Help?”

Doc chuckles again, reaching around behind him for another little towel to hand to him. Setting it on his lap just as he saw Doc do, he has to force himself not to jump when Doc reaches out and sets the kitten into his hands, holding them in his own as he pulls down, guiding him to set it down the same way as the first one.

“Hold it like this,” Doc tells him, physically guiding Mumbo’s hand to hold the kitten still and from falling, caging it in a gentle and supportive grip. Then he takes his other hand, the one with the bottle still in it, and turns it over to hold it properly downward. His hand stays there, over both of Mumbo’s own, wrapped around his fingers and showing him exactly what to do. Just like with the first, he nudges at the kitten’s mouth with the little colored nib, but this one latches on all on its own and starts guzzling down the formula inside with a vengeance. “Oh, there we go!”

“It’s a thirsty little thing, isn’t it?” Mumbo manages, watching in fascination at how strong the kitten’s grip on the bottle seems compared to its prior lethargy.

“Little guy knows what he needs. Sometimes they don’t, they’ll refuse it and put up a fight, but this one’s one of the easy ones.” Doc seems to sigh, as if in relief. Then he lets go of Mumbo’s hands, leaving him to continue feeding it on his own, and even though he feels like he has a decent grasp on what he’s doing, he finds himself missing the contact.

It really is a strange day, isn’t it? First kittens and now whatever…  _ this _ is, he may as well believe he’s ended up in another world entirely.

Making sure to primarily watch the kitten, Mumbo sees Doc go back to the barrel out of the edge of his vision, retrieve another dark colored kitten and settle back into his chair to feed it as well. They lapse back into silence, nothing but the fading crackle of fire and the tiny suckling noises to reach their ears, which makes it far too easy to notice when Doc murmurs or hums to the kitten in his hold. Every time Mumbo glances up, he’s looking down at it with that same face, that expression of pure adoration. If he’s honest with himself, he genuinely feels like he wants to see that expression on the hybrid more often.

Doc has a lot of fun with running around pretending to be scary, with pulling a deep voice and gravelly threats with a sharp weapon in hand, with facing off against equally competitive Hermits in conflicts that always strengthen their bonds as a whole in the end, but  _ this _ side of Doc is different. This is the Doc with a soft, murmured voice, with a touch delicate enough to hold kittens small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with an expression of pure, relaxed happiness on his face looking down at the helpless baby animal in his care. It’s like Mumbo has seen past a curtain to something within, something usually hidden away from the sight of just anyone, and he’s glad to have witnessed it.

Drawn out of his trailing thoughts by the feeling of the bottle…  _ shrinking? _ In his grip, Mumbo glances down, startled by the way the plastic is caved in on itself, the kitten still suckling away. “Uh, Doc--” He starts, concerned, glancing up with a  _ help me _ expression to the other Hermit.

Upon looking up, he’s relieved by the way Doc’s instant reaction is to bark a laugh. “He really  _ is _ a hungry little thing. He’s got a suction on the bottle, not letting in any air to replace the milk he’s drinking. That’s fine, it’ll pop back to normal when he lets go.” He reassures, watching the orange kitten continuing to drink away without a care in the world, the poor bottle creaking in protest at being scrunched by a tiny cat the same size as it.

Just as Doc said, and just as the last kitten did, the orange one slows down in its feasting, stilling in a full and lethargic way, though without letting go of the bottle just yet. When it does, the bottle makes a sound of hissing air, the milk still inside bubbling as the plastic pops back to its proper shape without the presence of a vacuum inside of it. Mumbo is left with a wobbly kitten nosing around the towel, its velvet soft fur relaxing under his fingertips.

“Hold him steady and pat him now.” Doc tells him, again looking up from his own kitten. Mumbo does as told, carefully lifting it up and to his chest while making sure to support its bottom. He swears it weighs twice what it did before, boasting a round little belly it didn’t quite have a few minutes ago.

It’s so small, he’s only able to tap the broad side of two of his fingers against its back as gently as he can, watching the way its head sways like it’s on a boat from the motion. In no time at all, it makes a distinct, tiny sound, though he’s unsure for a moment whether that’s what he’s looking for or not.

“He’s done.” Doc says, nodding when Mumbo glances up. “You can put him to bed now.”

The kitten is quiet and still again as he moves it to the barrel, but it’s in a way that doesn’t worry him this time. He’s not sure exactly what it is, but it’s a peaceful quiet this time, a comfortable one, and not the result of weakened kittens progressing downhill without the attention they needed. It hits him, all at once, that he wouldn’t have been able to do this without Doc. That he wouldn’t have had the supplies or the know-how to take care of them, to save them from whatever uncertain fate they had alone in the Nether. Just looking down at the orange kitten in his hands, at the way it was previously so still like it was sad and giving up, only to now be curled up and looking like it’s  _ happy _ as it dozes right off to sleep in his palms, makes a choked feeling rise in his chest.

They wouldn’t be okay without Doc, he thinks. But the other Hermit is here, helping and caring for them, despite what he may have been working on or had planned until now. Because of him, they get to feel safe and warm, to grow up, right here under their watch.

It’s… well, it’s really getting to him, blinking back tears just from it all. Mumbo looks back, looking at Doc in his chair, still murmuring to the kitten in his own lap, smiling gently at it with a kind of affection like it was a baby of his own species, like it was  _ his. _

“Thank you.” He manages to choke out, voice thick with emotion. Doc’s head snaps up at the sound, eyes wide,  _ concern _ flashing in them first thing. It’s like he’s worried something’s wrong, that one of the kittens has gone downhill after all, but it’s replaced with a look of slight confusion until Mumbo manages to speak again. “For helping, for, for… for knowing how? I don’t know, I…”

He looks back at the kitten in his hands, curled up and sleeping away. It fits perfectly in his palms, curled into a little ball, its side rising and falling in a rhythmic motion, its teeny tiny,  _ so very tiny _ whiskers swaying from its exhales. It’s so tiny, so vulnerable; in such a ragged state when he found them, so weak, only to be where it is now. It smacks its mouth in its sleep, nuzzling deeper into his hands. He feels so overwhelmed just with how precious it is, with the impact deciding to take them with him has had on what their outcome will be.

Suddenly, Doc’s hands appear in his vision, the hybrid’s presence warm against his back. The dark colored kitten he was feeding is settled gently into Mumbo’s hands with the orange one, just as sleepy and full, and they wiggle and squeak together for a moment before settling down. Doc’s hands settle onto either side of his own, helping hold the little bundle of mismatched fur.

“You’re the one that found them.  _ You’re _ the one they would thank if they could, if they  _ knew. _ I may know what to do, but without you, they wouldn’t be here at all.” Doc murmurs right by his ear, head over his shoulder, in that same low voice he was speaking to the kittens in. It only manages to make him more emotional, heart doing a funny little thing with his words and the kittens, but it’s a good kind of emotional.

Gently, Doc pulls their hands down, down into the barrel and to the rest of the kittens. They set them gently down into the warm blanket, their tiny forms immediately wiggling around the others and finding quiet places to sleep, while the remaining two they’ve yet to feed stick their heads up at the new presence. The white one, just like it’s done all this time, stands as high as its tiny body can manage and  _ yells _ at them both.

“That one’s got some personality.” Doc says, low and affectionate, the chuckle escaping him rumbling in his chest against Mumbo’s back. The kitten clambers and fusses, grabbing at them with tiny paws with even  _ tinier _ claws, until Doc scoops it up and sets it into Mumbo’s hands. “Take him, I think he likes you.”

Doc then takes the last remaining kitten, the one with the dark fur and the lighter marks on its face, and leans away. He retreats back to his chair, and Mumbo back to his seat on the bed, settling the fussy kitten in his lap before trying to wipe the tears gathered in his eyes. Doc watches him, he thinks, certain he can feel the other’s gaze on him even though Doc’s hands are already holding kitten and bottle.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a cat person.” Doc says after a moment, his voice still low and quiet. It’s a thoughtful sort of tone, not with any kind of expectation, but more of a passing consideration.

“Me neither.” Mumbo agrees, chuckling through the heavy sound of his own voice. The white kitten yells louder, so tiny and so angry in a way that only comes off as adorable, and he’s quick to tip the bottle over and hold it toward said kitten. Just like the orange one, it latches on with no hesitation and no need for guidance, clutching to it in a way that looks like it has no intention of letting go anytime soon. “I could say the same for you, though.”

“Really?” Doc sounds surprised. “I love cats.”

He supposes it fits, really. He would have expected Doc to be the type to have a hoard of dogs, or a big Ravager with a funny name, but now that he thinks about it, he’s never seen the hybrid with anything like that. Just like his outwardly projected personality of being intimidating and feisty, he’s actually just a softie that likes cats.

It’s cute, a thought that immediately makes Mumbo choke on his own saliva.

“You good over there?” Doc asks as he coughs, and Mumbo does his best to nod, head turned away from his kitten and trying to hold the bottle as still as he can. It’s not enough though, evidenced by the way the kitten makes an even angrier noise at him before latching right back onto it. This time it naws on the nib of the bottle, clenching its tiny jaws over and over while making little tiny growling noises. “Oh, he’s  _ cranky. _ ”

Seemingly just as Doc points it out, the kitten settles down. It gets enough food to relax some, for its angriness to slowly settle away, until it soothes into the same quiet suckling the others did. Its paws are stretched out in front of it as far as they’ll go, tiny claws kneading the towel under it, until Mumbo feels the little body in his hand start rumbling. His eyes snap up to meet Doc’s, going wide with the absolute shock that fills him.

“Is it  _ purring? _ Doc, they can  _ purr?!” _ He demands, feeling his heart swell all over again at the now happy noises rumbling under his hand, so loudly it feels like that tiny body shouldn’t be able to project them that much. Doc snorts, inclining his head.

“They’re  _ cats, _ Mumbo, of course they can purr.”

He sounds so genuinely amused, the smile on his face just as evident in his voice. Even though Mumbo feels like he  _ could _ be embarrassed, for not knowing an admittedly somewhat obvious fact, he doesn’t. He’s more focused on the genuine feeling of warm happiness in the room, the comfort between them, of the way Doc is smiling. Looking away, back down to the happy kitten in his lap, Mumbo feels like he could get used to this kind of comfortable peace.

After what feels like both hours and only moments at once, after the kittens are finally all fed, stilled into happy little sleeping bundles of fur, Doc makes Mumbo hold all five of them again. He swaps out the rocks for newer, warmer ones, tossing the old ones right back into the fire to reheat. There’s nothing quite more satisfying than being able to set all of the kittens into their remade bed, fresh and warm with each one fed and ready to sleep it off. He can’t help but stand for a moment, just watching them wiggle around each other and settle down, until Doc’s hand meets his shoulder again.

Turning, he’s met with that soft gaze and another blanket in the hybrid’s other hand. “Ready to let them sleep?” He asks, and the redstoner nods, stepping back. It gives Doc room to toss the blanket just over the top of the barrel, blocking out any light and stray cold wind from reaching the babies within.

It feels like setting down the last bit of redstone, of finishing off an intensive project after hours and hours of work, seeing the kittens tucked away for bedtime. All at once, it hits him how  _ exhausted _ he is, his whole day gone into everything related to these fuzzy little beans. Doc leans in, glancing over his face, and Mumbo can’t even manage to be flustered this time through the weariness dragging at him.

“Do you want me to take care of them so you can get back to your projects?” Doc asks, quietly. There’s a hint of something in his voice, something resigned; like he expects to be left to take care of them on his own, and has fully accepted it, but doesn’t  _ want _ Mumbo to go.

Which is good, because Mumbo doesn’t want to go, either. He doesn’t know if Doc wants him to stay just because of the workload five kittens creates, or for reasons having more to do with the soft and caring look pinned on him, but he thinks he can find that out later.

“No, I… Can I stay? I want to help, I’m…” He hesitates, trying to find the words, but the way Doc’s face absolutely lights up at the refusal to leave makes a happy feeling spread through him all over again. “I’m invested, to say the least.”

“Good company always makes it better.” Doc smiles back at him, with soft eyes that crinkle at the edges, betraying a look Mumbo’s starting to feel like he’ll be seeing a lot of from now on, that same look he  _ wants _ to see more of. It makes him feel wanted, a feeling of belonging, and he can’t resist tugging the other Hermit into a hug. Doc holds him back, chin on his head, and Mumbo can feel as he speaks again. “Well, I guess this makes us parents together.”

Mumbo chokes, going red, but really-- well, he’s not arguing.

**Author's Note:**

> my braincell died at the end but please imagine the kittens growing up, Doc keeps one of them, they give the other three to other hermits, and Mumbo keeps the white one, and the white one grows up into a very demanding little lady that yells at Mumbo and stomps on his face at 5am in the mornings and he loves her.
> 
> i'm definitely not projecting.
> 
> also, note: this is all written from personal experience fostering orphan kittens and based in some level of realism, but also with minecraft-shaped pieces cut out of it. please don't actually warm your kittens with fire rocks except in the case of the apocalypse.  
> also don't feed them actual milk. im pretending Doc used alpaca milk to give myself some peace of mind.


End file.
